Billabong's Daughter by Mary Grant Bruce

Author:Mary Grant Bruce
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Juvenile
Publisher: Distributed Proofreaders Canada
Published: 1924-08-19T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER IX

RESPONSIBILITIES

MELBOURNE greeted Wally kindly, for, as he swung down Collins Street, uncertain how to fill in the hours before the Sydney express left, he encountered two old friends: boys who had been at the Grammar School in his time, had played in the same team in one of the memorable years when “Grammar” had been champions, and, later on, had shared with him the greater game of war. They greeted him uproariously, smiting him on the back and calling him by old, half-forgotten nicknames; and hauled him off to lunch at Menzies’, gathering up other friends on the way. They made a cheery tableful; the air hummed with their talk and laughter—old memories of school-days, matches lost and won, fights for Head of the River: and, coming to later days, they tossed back and forth a hundred stories of war-time. People at the neighbouring tables found themselves listening; waiters hovered near, discreetly suppressing smiles. Then, having lunched mightily they descended upon the smoking-room in a body, and smoked no less mightily, while their tongues wagged the more. Some—reluctantly—were claimed by duty; the others supported Wally until it was time for his train, escorted him to it, and waited until it moved out of the station. He leaned out of the open doorway to wave good-bye to the cheery, sunburnt band.

“Good chaps!” he muttered. He turned into his compartment, finding his seat in the corner heaped with magazines—the band’s parting offering. They had made the hours of waiting pass very easily. His spirits, low enough when he left Billabong, had risen considerably; it was easier to believe that Edward was better, that all his perplexities would come right.

Sydney next day was less hospitable. He strolled about the streets, looking in vain for a face he knew; and, finding none, boarded a ferry steamer and went across to Manly, and sat watching the tumbling seas as they crashed down upon the long stretch of sand. He lunched at Manly, and came back to the city afterwards. Ordinarily, he loved the crooked, narrow streets, that seemed always full of a hurrying crowd; to-day it somehow was the loneliest place on earth to him. He was glad when it was time to go to the station again.

The night passed restlessly. It was hot, and the man in the other sleeper snored, and kept him awake: the train roared and rattled and jerked, making a terrific business of starting and pulling up. When he slept he dreamed queer confused dreams in which he was a little boy again, and Edward was a grave young man who did not seem to care for little boys: and then, curiously, they were together in a trench, and he was ordering Edward over the top, but staying behind himself. That seemed incredible to him in his dream, and he saw clearly his brother’s face, always grave, always inquiring; and suddenly little Mary-Kate Reilly was there, saying that it was all right; it was “orders.”

He woke, a little comforted.

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